


Welcome to Albion Vinyl

by senbazuru



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 90s Grunge Era, Alternate Universe - Human, Eventual Smut, Fluff, M/M, Moments of FrUk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2018-04-01 05:09:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4007017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/senbazuru/pseuds/senbazuru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred's part time job in a record shop is becoming a full time obsession - and it isn't just the music that's making his heart skip a beat...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. European Import

 

 

 

 

It was almost 10am by the time Alfred rolled his skateboard around the gently sweeping corner and leisurely turned onto the familiar street, carving a smooth arc until he arrived in front of the still shut-up shop, cruising to a halt before popping his foot on the tail to effortlessly catch the scruffy board in his hand.

He leant his often ridiculed mode of transport up against the flyer pasted wall and dug around in the pockets of his grungy faded jeans in search of the spare key, a key which had originally only been bestowed upon him under the sole proviso it be used for emergencies, but now nearly a year later he found himself apparently in charge of lifting up the shutters and switching on the lights when he turned up late for work on a Saturday morning.

Albion Vinyl was a small, independent record shop located in the rundown but arguably trendier side of town, it was kind if dingy and most likely didn't really make that much money, but the customers they did have were loyal and the place had gained somewhat of a cult status amongst the thriving local music scene. He'd initially only taken on his part-time job as a means to earn some extra cash during college, but now Alfred was nearing the end of his second year and he found that this little shop and it's discerningly niche culture had entwined itself into his life, influencing and entertaining him more than any of the various cliques and crowds on campus ever did. He was even secretly proud when he told people where it was that he worked.

Once inside the slightly musky scented premises he turned the simple latch to lock the door behind him again, because although the official opening hours were apparently from nine until five, it was sort of an unwritten rule that they weren't actually open for business until at least sometime after midday.

As suggested by the signage painted red on black outside the establishment, the interior of the shop was filled with an extensive collection of vinyl records, stacked meticulously in banks of racks all separated by genre and artist, a story behind each individual pressing and a price tag on none of them. The remaining walls were adorned with an eclectic selection of famous and underground sleeve art, ranging anything from Jimi Hendrix to Belle and Sebastian, and at the back of the store resided the coveted rare LPs displayed almost reverently under a glass counter by the till. Off to the side there was also a fairly sizeable accumulation of CDs and even a few jumbled boxes of cassette tapes, but for the most part the stock remained suitably old school - there was certainly no place for minidiscs and DVDs at Albion.

Alfred looked up at the ceiling when he heard the muffled scrape of a chair from the apartment above, and as he made his way towards the back room, to where the fire exit and a staircase to the upper floor were hidden in a clutter of cardboard boxes and old speakers, he slowed his pace by just a fraction as he listened to the unmistakable murmuring of voices. It seemed that Arthur had company.

Arthur Kirkland was the shop's owner, a young British guy only five or six years older than Alfred himself, and although he'd come over to the States many years ago he'd still managed to retain his distinctive English accent, his sometimes unnervingly dark sense of humour and his slightly offbeat preference in clothing. Yes, Arthur was probably just as well-known as Albion Vinyl itself, as much a part of the style and appeal as the limited editions and newest releases, and Alfred could kind of understand why the music nerds and record collectors alike came back there time and again to be around him.

Arthur somehow possessed this curious anarchic quality; he was punk, he was rock and roll, he was special and Alfred couldn't help but elevate and admire him. But he was also mysterious, he seemed kind of guarded and he never really talked much about his family or his past, he was self-deprecating and charming when needed, but even though he treated Alfred more like a friend than an employee it still felt as if Arthur were forever out of his reach.

Once his skateboard was safely propped up against the peeling wall in the back room Alfred made his way up the narrow stairs to Arthur's apartment, taking two steps at a time as the sound of laughter and relaxed conversation drifted down through the half open doorway.

"Hey," Alfred greeted as he walked in to the messy open plan kitchen, flicking the switch on the still warm kettle and searching the cupboard for a mug like he owned the place.

"Bonjour" Francis lilted pleasantly from where he sat with Arthur at the table, the Frenchman was smoking a cigarette, his golden shoulder length mane uncharacteristically dishevelled as he also appeared to be loosely dressed in rumpled evening wear - fitted black trousers and a white shirt hanging open. Under the table his bare foot lay in Arthur's lap.

"You're late," Arthur drawled, pushing Francis's leg off his knee. It was a running joke between the two of them, because yes, whilst technically Alfred was indeed nearly an hour late, they both knew Arthur didn't really care, much less plan on opening up the shop any time before lunch.

"So I am," Alfred agreed, spooning some coffee and sugar into his cup, before turning to lean on the counter whilst he waited for the water to boil. Arthur shot him a warning glance; his bright green eyes squinting in mock annoyance as he cursed at him under his breath, it made Alfred grin and the Englishman shook his head in distain, although a fond little smile crept onto his lips nonetheless.

"Big night last night?" Alfred surmised, because really Arthur wasn't fairing any better than his European friend, wearing only a pair of slouchy grey track pants and his choppy blond hair sticking up even more than was the usual.

"Something like that" he groaned tiredly, accepting a drag on Francis's cigarette before slowly exhaling and passing it back.

"Ah but we had fun did we not?" Francis grinned as he draped himself over his chair, "if there is one thing that I know, it is how to throw a good party."

"Hm, not much else in your head" Arthur muttered as he opened his newspaper.

The kettle clicked off as it came to the boil and Alfred poured the water to make his much needed coffee, breathing in the steam as it mixed with the instant granules to produce that soothingly aromatic scent. He made his way over to the small kitchen table, and without even needing to be asked Arthur nudged a tray of pastries over to where Alfred took a seat, the box clearly branded with the elegant logo of the French themed café that Francis owned in the building just next door. Alfred chose a donut.

"Mais oui, last night it was tres amusant" the Frenchman sighed wistfully, before his features took on a playful smirk as he turned towards Alfred "if only you could have seen your cranky old boss - our dear Arthur was rather wild. In fact" his sharp blue eyes throwing a sidelong glance at the Englishman "I do believe you were in receipt of several lewd propositions were you not?"

"Kindly shut it," Arthur monotoned blandly, not even looking up to cuff Francis swiftly across the back of his head.

"Oh come on Lapin," the sly Frenchman bated, his eyes narrowing as he hooked his finger over Arthur's paper to drag it down and claim his attention. "Whilst it is true I have taken my fair share of lovers" he smirked as he took a drag on his cigarette "I don't really think you're in any position to judge mon cher" and he rolled a plume of grey-blue smoke smoothly past his lips.

"Whatever helps you sleep around at night" Arthur sighed, as he pulled the tea tray on top of his flattened newspaper, obviously having abandoned any hope of actually reading it. Instead he poured himself a mug of tea from the chintzy pot, stirring and adding the milk in second after checking the expiry date and giving the paper carton a little sniff.

Alfred watched the practiced ritual play out, only slightly jealous as he swilled his instant coffee around in his cup. And he didn't even like tea - everyone knew that coffee was way better - but he quite admired Arthur's particular way of preparing it, how much of a stickler he could be if the ratios were off. It was kind of like when Arthur talked about his favourite music, when he became passionate and protective over all those obscure British bands, as if he took it as a personal slight against his country if someone misquoted or attempted a poor rendition of their songs.

"Yes, I could tell many a tale" Francis prodded again as he ripped apart an unsuspecting croissant, "quite the player" he sang, dipping the pastry into Arthur's tea.

Alfred's gaze flicked down to the clutter strewn table, because for some reason he found that idea made him feel weirdly uncomfortable. He’d already gleaned enough to know that Arthur had lived something of a crazy lifestyle, and that he occasionally still did so if the rumours could be believed, but he didn't really like to think about it.

"Is that true?" He asked, taking a slow sip of coffee in an attempt to make his rather bold enquiry seem breezy and conversational. Because although he didn't like to think of Arthur like that, and it was almost like some subtle form of self-inflicted punishment to even pose the question, he couldn't resist the chance of learning something new about his ever intriguing employer.

Arthur's green eyes slid from where he'd been busy staring daggers at Francis for the insolent invasion of his tea, to regard Alfred cautiously before he sat back in his chair and took his precious brew with him. "It was a long time ago" he said simply, bringing the mug to his lips.

"Ugh, you make us sound so _old!"_ Francis bemoaned.

"You're older than me, frog" Arthur quipped "and if anyone's been around the block it's you."

"Pfft!" Francis snickered, stubbing his cigarette in the ashtray and stuttering drowsy puffs of smoke "so mean lapin. But what of last night, hm? I seem to remember a certain flirtatious Spaniard trying so desperately to monopolise your attention, non?”

“God don’t remind me,” Arthur groaned as he rubbed at his temples “that Antonio has absolutely no sense of personal space” and his brow knitted together in umbrage, Francis chuckling at his obvious displeasure.

Arthur and Francis had a very strange relationship; they were definitely not a couple, that much Alfred could be certain of, but there was a definite closeness to their bond – a bond strong enough to withstand the barrage of imaginative insults that they shot back and forth on a regular basis. There was also a definite edge of intimacy to the way they interacted physically, although from what he had observed Arthur was probably the more guarded of the two. But Alfred wouldn’t at all be surprised if they had some kind of ‘friends with benefits’ thing going on. A little jealous maybe, but not surprised.

"Antonio?" Alfred probed casually, as he slowly pressed the little donut crumbs onto the pad of his finger.

"Antonio Carriedo," Francis seemed all too willing to elaborate "he is the lead guitar and vocalist for the mediocre band we went to see last night. Mais oui, the gig was only bearable due to the excellent wine list - which I consulted on, naturellement - although on the plus side, our Spanish lothario seemed to possess the hips of a serpent, would you not say Lapin?"

"Snakes don't have hips you twat," the Englishman deflected.

"Vous êtes pas drôle" Francis shook his head, a melodramatic sigh escaping from his smirking lips.

"Un peu de silence, s'il vous plait" he drawled in return, his eyes falling shut in exasperation as he evidently tried to avoid the bait.

"Mon petit lapin-"

Oh good, they were talking in French again. Alfred knew they didn't do it to be intentionally rude, they just kind of slipped into it sometimes, especially when they were arguing. It just kind of irritated him, that here there was another barrier between himself and Arthur, and he could almost kick his stupid teenage self for taking Spanish in high school, instead of opting for French like his cousin Matt.

Alfred downed the rest of his coffee, sliding his chair from under the table as the older pair continued to bicker _en Français_. He rinsed his cup under the tap and left it to be washed in the kitchen sink before slipping out the apartment door and down the stairs to the empty shop. If he was lucky, he might get enough time to play a bunch of the records he'd been making his way through before Arthur came down to open up and he'd have to actually start working. He didn't mind though, Alfred just liked hanging out with him.

 

 

 


	2. Lead-in Groove

 

 

  
“Most iconic album cover” stated the platinum blond perching casually on the record shop’s counter. He levelled his gaze at the man who'd just that moment made it down from his apartment, and whilst his heavy Germanic accent was seemingly void of any inflection it was clearly meant as a question, purposely spoken loud enough for the regular weekend crowd to overhear. "And don’t say Abby Road… or London-“

“-Calling” Arthur finished abruptly, as he realised his initial gut response had already been instantly vetoed.

“Waaay too obvious” he scoffed.

“Isn’t that sort of the point?” Arthur scowled as he rounded to stand behind the desk “and Jesus Gil, how many more times do I have to tell you to get your arse off the glass” he complained, shoving him in the back and forcing the taller man to rather inelegantly slump down and land his feet on the floor. “That sleeve is instantly recognisable,” he continued regardless as he made a show of wiping the surface with the cuff of his shirt “everyone knows it’s by The Clash, even if – god forbid – they can’t actually name any of the tracks. It’s an emblem of punk, even pays homage to music history-“

“I Guess” Gil interrupted dismissively, elongating his vowels and grimacing pitifully at Arthur to convey just how thoroughly unimpressed he was.

“What about Nirvana: Never Mind?” Alfred chipped in, as he sidled over with a hefty stack of records in his hands. He was supposed to be restocking the shelves, but he just couldn’t resist getting involved when these types of conversations inevitably cropped up.

And it was usually Gil that instigated most of those heated discussions; he was another one of Arthur’s European drinking buddies, and apart from loitering around the shop he spent the majority of his time running and promoting a band night at the local dive bar. Alfred thought he came across as a bit of a know it all, but apparently he liked to party as hard as Arthur did and he was privy to the details of all the best underground gigs.

“Interesting choice” Gil tipped his head in thought, “not super current, but not one of the boring oldies either.”

“Oh come on" Arthur protested as Alfred rather smugly unloaded his armful of vinyl on the counter “Seriously?” his incredulous green eyes looked back and forth between them. “Okay… okay then what about The Stone Roses self-titled debut? Or Joy Division: Unknown Pleasures?”

“Why do they all have to be British?” Gil squinted his dark burgundy eyes in mock suspicion.

“Yeah!” Alfred accused with a grin “America’s got some awesome bands as well ya’know.”

“Alright…”

“...The Ramones” both Arthur and Alfred spoke in unison, the latter feeling a bloom of pride in his chest at being able to guess his boss’ choice correctly. And it wasn't as if Alfred was obsessed with him or anything, he just happened to notice the things that Arthur was into, nothing more to it than that.

“Christ” Arthur grumbled as he retrieved a packet of cigarettes from down beside the cash register and then slid one sullenly between his lips “am I really that predictable?”

"Nah" Alfred smiled "you just like what you like, that's all."

"He's saying you're a boring old man" Gil said flatly as he moved to one side to allow a customer to approach the till.

"What's all this crap I'm getting about my age just recently?" Arthur muttered, as he was handed a near mint condition 75 of Stevie Wonder's I Just Called to Say I Love You. He promptly sighed, and shared a surreptitious roll of eyes with Gil. "Fifteen bucks" he said after appraising the sleeve and the state of the record inside, his mouth drawing into a line and his unlit cigarette bobbing up and down as he spoke.

The man paid up, no questions asked, and Arthur slipped his purchase into a shiny white plastic bag printed with the words 'Albion Vinyl' written in solid black text, the O made up of a series of concentric red and black circles. In fact, the logo appeared suspiciously reminiscent of that of The Who.

"That was a bit steep" Gil whistled after the three of them had quietly watched the oblivious customer leave.

"Call it a tax on taste" Arthur smirked, cupping a shielding hand around his jaw and lighting up with a few crackling sparks of a small red plastic lighter.

"Not bad old dog" he chuckled.

"Hey" Arthur pointed the newly smoking embers at him in protest "less of all this old stuff from you. Seriously, I'm twenty six - and a good few years younger than you are at that."

"Biologically perhaps" Gil conceded with a shrug.

Alfred shuffled around to stand with Arthur behind the glass counter cabinet, and he made himself look busy by absently flicking through the random pile of records he was currently supposed to be reshelving. It was ostensibly a move to avoid being directly downwind of the slowly drifting cloud of cigarette smoke, which incidentally didn't seem to have any effect on Gil one bit. But if Alfred was honest with himself it was also partly so he wouldn't fall into the trap of watching Arthur smoke; the way his slender wrist and fingers held it at an angle towards his mouth, the way his lips pressed together around the filter and his eyelids fluttered just a little as he gratefully inhaled. It was a habit Alfred decided he needed to quit.

"Anyway" Gil interrupted the momentary lull "I've got your ticket for next Saturday night," he grinned as he rummaged in the pocket of his faded denim jacket. And at that Alfred's ears pricked up like a curious puppy as he continued to casually eavesdrop their conversation, because apparently Arthur was planning on another big night out. "Here we go," his voice slightly hushed and secretive as he pulled out a folded wad of paper. "Is Francis upstairs or...?" he trailed off with a knowing smirk on his lips.

"No" Arthur replied, clearly trying for nonchalance as he ran his free hand through his still messy hair "he's gone to work." And Alfred snuck a sidelong glance at his employer, noticing the obvious way that he was attempting to avoid more questions on the subject.

One good thing about Gil, in Alfred's view anyway, was that he routinely teased and needled at Arthur in a way that nobody else seemed able or brave enough to do. Sure, Arthur and Francis constantly bickered and flung affectionately barbed insults at each other pretty much all the time, but they each gave as good as they got and they both seemed to brush it off just as easily. However, with Gil, the power balance seemed a little different. It wasn't as if Arthur let himself be pushed around or anything, he would still tell the other to piss off or occasionally kick him out of his shop if he was being unusually irritating, but Gil was able to sniff out traces of gossip and weakness like some kind of spy, and he'd continue to press relentlessly until rewarded with a reaction. He was more like an annoying big brother than a friend, and Alfred liked to watch on those rare occasions when Arthur Kirkland became flustered.

"He has? Oh that's a shame" Gil said lightly, still smirking and eyeing Arthur for any response "I'll just have to go next door and deliver it personally, and maybe sample some of his pastries whilst I'm there. But here-' he leaned on the counter, pulling one sheet of paper from the roll and slapping it face down on the glass "doors open at nine, just give this flyer to security, yada-yada..." he mumbled as he signed his name on the back and slid it over to the other.

"Thanks" Arthur exhaled a stream of hazy grey smoke, picking it up and turning it over to read.

The front side was printed on a background of bright neon green that made it kind of difficult to read the scrawled lines of black handwritten words. There was a picture of the band in the middle, the members somewhat indistinguishable due to the high contrast and the grainy poor quality of the photocopy, their name pretty much the only decipherable piece of information on the entirety of the flyer.

"Cool" Alfred said without thinking, still covertly peering over Arthur's shoulder.

He only realised he'd been caught out when consequently two sets of dubious eyes then turned to him in silence. Shit. He'd only meant to say that in his head, and so needing to improvise he simply nodded sagely and continued to study the flyer as if he hadn't just drawn their attention.

" _You_ like The Suicide Machines?" Arthur questioned skeptically, more so in surprise than meaning anything by it.

"Huh?' He feigned ignorance "oh yeah, they're pretty good. I can really appreciate Ska" he bluffed. And thank the Lord that Alfred had recognised the band name from a bunch of cassette tapes they'd been sent by a local promoter.

"I see" Arthur spoke slowly, still looking at him slightly stunned. Alfred felt almost giddy that apparently he'd managed to inadvertently impress him, but he knew that if he was really going to pull this off then he needed to play it cool. So he fought back the dopey grin that was threatening to give him away, and instead he simply adjusted his red rimmed glasses as he resumed shuffling through the random pile of records still conveniently in his grasp.

"Well!" Gil clapped his hands together with glee, "who'd have thought it eh? The kid _can appreciate Ska"_ he grinned, one of his pale eyebrows roguishly quirked in amusement. "You should come" he said with finality, already unfurling another flyer and reaching for the pen.

"Uh" Alfred stammered dumbly, his eyes shooting to Arthur with sudden apprehension. The happy glow he'd experienced moments before quickly twisted into a knot in the pit of his stomach, events had certainly taken an unexpected turn. The thought of seeing Arthur in a social setting made him nervous; because although they hung out at the shop all the time, sometimes just the two of them or other times like this with another of Arthur's friends, seeing him outside of work felt like a pretty major development. "Is it ok?" He questioned breathlessly, sounding and feeling a bit like a child asking for permission from a grown-up.

"If you want" Arthur shrugged, taking the last drag of his cigarette before dropping it down into his empty mug. "He's underage though" he reminded Gil, smirking as he tipped his head towards his young part-time assistant.

"Only by a couple months" Alfred whined.

"You'll be fine" Gil chuckled before critically looking him over "you're tall enough, and if you swap that grungy getup for something a bit more edgy nobody will know. Plus," he grinned "you'll have this-" and he handed him the flyer "so they'll have to let you in."

"Thanks" Alfred grinned, holding the paper reverently.

"Besides, you'll have Arthur looking after you too" he continued with a smirk "isn't that right?"

"Sure" Arthur drawled, smiling just a little when he happened to catch Alfred's eye. "Just don't get shit-faced alright?" He warned, presumably only half joking.

"Alright" Alfred nodded happily, before folding the ticket and slipping it safely into his pocket.

"See, this is why I'm in the music industry" Gil stated with conviction, earning a little grunt of derision as Arthur rolled his eyes. "It's all about the fans" he continued nobly unaffected.

Alfred began to hum as he moved out from behind the counter, leaving them alone to debate the grandiose ideas Gil held about his job at the dingy venue down the street, and he finally took his pile of records to begin contentedly slotting them each into their own respective racks. He made a mental note to track down that wonderful cassette tape he'd had the good fortune to file away himself, and actually give it a listen.

Of course, he was happy to let them believe his excitement was due the fact that he'd just been handed the chance to see an up and coming band, rather than the truth, that he'd been invited on a night out with Arthur. He wondered if he'd be different from the grouchy, charismatic man he knew from around the shop, and the thought of possibly getting to see another side of him had Alfred biting his lip through a grin as he worked.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, it's almost 12 months since I posted chapter one. Oops?
> 
> I've been writing a long fic in another fandom and I'm not very good at holding two plots in my head at once - especially for a whole different set of characters. But even though I'm still not actually finished with that I received a few really nice comments since the beginning of the year, and they kind of got my mind jogging over again. (See, there's a chance for those fics that might seem abandoned - just send a comment to that one author you like and maybe they'll be inspired)
> 
> Anyway, you may have picked up on my quite obvious inspiration - High Fidelity, a book by Nick Hornby which was later made into a film staring John Cusack - but it's pretty much just the setting I'm stealing, there won't be a lot of existential angst. It's an excellent read though, and I think the film is very good too. 
> 
> The Suicide Machines are an American punk/ska band founded in the 90s, and I have a feeling they'd be right up Arthur's street. 
> 
> I'll try not to leave it so long...


	3. Extended Play

 

 

  
Arthur was wearing a studded black leather jacket. He had on a fitted white t-shirt; ‘The Specials’ emblazoned across his chest and framed in a black and white chequerboard pattern. He wore tight blue jeans and chunky black boots that somehow made his limbs look a little more wiry and lean than they did in his daytime getup.

Alfred was trying not to stare. He was trying not to turn his head every time that the silver chain looping from Arthur’s belt made a jangling noise as they walked. He was trying not to catch his eye on the understated stud that sparkled on Arthur’s left earlobe.

Likewise, Alfred had taken Gil’s advice and ditched the usual flannel shirt and grungy ripped up jeans which constituted his typical workwear, in favour of something a little sharper. Whilst he still felt comfortable and like himself, he knew that the snug plain black v-neck he’d picked out would be a little more in tune with the venue and the Saturday night crowd of punk and ska fans he’d be infiltrating. Also, Arthur had given him a quick once over and nodded his approval when he’d arrived. So there was that.

They’d met at the shop a little after ten o’clock in order to walk together to the venue located just a few streets over, calling next door for Francis along the way. And as they’d waited outside the closed up cafe, Arthur’s cigarette glowing orange in the dark of the cooling evening, there was an almost palpable throb of excitement in the pit of Alfred’s stomach.

“Remember what I said” Arthur exhaled a drift of smoke, obviously having picked up on Alfred’s buzz of anticipation “I don’t want to see you getting plastered - I’m not dragging your drunken arse home if you drink too much tonight.”

“Nah” Alfred played it cool, casually checking his shirtsleeve for lint, though unable to shake the elated grin that had taken up residence on his face. “Not really my scene.”

“Hmm” Arthur hummed thoughtfully as he pressed the filter of the cigarette between his lips and took another drag. “Right.”

It was clear that his boss was still a little stunned at Alfred’s apparent interest in the band they’d be going to see. And to be fair, after Alfred had dug out their distinctive neon green cassette tape to give them a listen, he kind of saw where the root of his surprise was coming from. It wasn’t as if he thought they were particularly bad or anything; one of the reasons Alfred liked his job at Albion so much was that he was constantly being exposed to new artists and genres that he might never have discovered on his own. But The Suicide Machines were definitely _different_ to the kinds of bands he normally chose to go and see, or the records he bought for his own expanding collection. He hadn’t known too much about ska until a week ago, and okay, if he’d done a bit of extra research in case he needed to make conversation with Arthur, well that was just because he was a conscientious music fan.

Francis finally emerged from the alleyway between his cafe and the record shop, dressed in a stylishly tailored black suit and slim tie, a dark tweed trilby perched rakishly on the crown of his head with his blond locks falling around his face. He looked expertly put together, as always.

“Salut” he chimed happily, plucking the last of Arthur’s cigarette from his lips and placing it between his own, his free hand playfully reaching up to examine that little stud earring as he let out a wispy stream of smoke.

“About bloody time” Arthur muttered, easily slapping Francis away when his fingertips lingered at his jawline for a beat too long. And Alfred instinctively averted his eyes at that open show of intimacy, silently falling into step as they made their way down the street.

  
The Maze was dark and smelled of cigarettes and stale beer, the variously patched up floor coverings sticking to the soles of Alfred’s shoes as he shuffled through the jostling crowds of people. The whole place seemed to be alive with an electric kind of energy, a niche underground character that still managed to feel inviting, despite being a bit more rough around the edges than most of the comparatively bland student bars that Alfred had occasionally hung out in. And he’d had no trouble getting past the gruff looking door staff as he feared he might, his signed flyer apparently more credible than the very best of fake ID’s.

They made a beeline straight for the bar along the side wall, their movements accompanied by the thrumming bass and saxophone of the lively support band already performing on the elevated stage at the back of the room. Their sound was infectiously cheerful and a little more laidback, closer to the lilt of reggae than the decidedly punk-leaning main act would be. Alfred was already fascinated.

“Lager? Or something stronger perhaps?” Francis spoke directly into his ear, a questioning hand resting on Alfred’s shoulder blade.

“Take it easy” Arthur warned again as he leant his forearms on the dark wooden countertop, attempting to catch the eye of one of the bartenders who scurried back and forth busily serving customers.

“Oh lighten up Lapin” Francis nudged at him “let the boy have some fun - he is in college after all, not some innocent little lamb in need of your protection.”

Alfred was both grateful and a little put out by the Frenchman’s encouragement. Because even if his intentions were good, it still felt as if his parents were discussing the merits of allowing him an adult drink with his dinner. He hadn’t been lying when he’d told Arthur he wasn’t that much in to alcohol, the feeling of losing control of yourself and your surroundings never really appealing to him. But as much as the notion may actually go towards proving his immaturity, he wanted to do all of the things that they were doing too.

Nonetheless, Arthur handed him a flimsy plastic cup filled with beer regardless of his previous caution, turning back to the bar to pick up his own and hand one off to Francis.

Francis crinkled his nose at the sloppily poured beverage, eyeing the excessive foam head and grimacing slightly as he took his first sip.

“Not quite up to your standards?” Arthur smirked as he raised his glass in a small ‘cheers’ before taking a long draught. “Lighten up frog” he quipped.

“Mais oui,” he sniffed airily “if Beilschmidt would only take my advice on how to stock a proper bar...”

“You do know that Gil doesn’t actually own this place?”

Alfred turned from where they stood with the relatively sedate group of drinkers to observe the crowd as it jumped and pulsated to the rhythm of the music. The clientele seemed to represent a wide spectrum of reggae, ska and punk fans along with a few more obviously mainstream patrons. There were people dressed in brightly patterned shirts and porkpie hats, people with elaborate Mohawks and those with long braided dreadlocks trailing down their backs.

Alfred felt like a bit of a fraud. The atmosphere was intriguing and exciting, and he always had an open mind when it came to new experiences. But if he was being honest, he was only really there to see Arthur.

He took a gulp of beer and looked back over his shoulder, finding the man in question already engaged in conversation with a couple of people that Alfred didn’t recognise, and sometimes he forgot how well known the record store owner really was in this town. One of the pair was a young woman with a thick blunt fringe and bright red lipstick, she shoved Arthur flirtatiously in the chest at something he’d said, and as he pretended to stumble he tipped his head back in a raucous laugh.

Alfred swallowed dryly, despite having only just taken a drink. His eyes were fixed on Arthur’s face as he continued to joke, leaning in and chuckling as the unknown man wearing a white string vest spoke over the music into his ear.

He’d never seen Arthur this outgoing before, so relaxed and sociable and looking like he was in his element. There were copious amounts of banter and humour when they were working at the shop for sure, and he often exuded a sort of calm contentment from his spot behind the counter, but this level of easy frivolity was definitely something new. His green eyes seemed inexplicably brighter, mischievous and thoroughly entertained. Alfred felt himself blush.

“Charming, is it not?” Francis was speaking only to him now, his own cool blue eyes also focused intently on Arthur as he continued to mingle, oblivious to their attention. “And the silliest thing, he has absolutely no idea” he chuckled.

“Mn” Alfred made a noncommittal noise that was mostly covered by the music and chatter, ducking back round to feign interest in the band.

“Of course, I do try to compliment him, but the spikey little thing will never believe a word of it. Though it is nice to see him, how you say, letting his hair down.” Francis sounded a little wistful, absently lighting another cigarette as he turned his attention to regard the stage as well.

They stood for several minutes without talking, and Alfred observed him from the corner of his eye, watching in the dim light the way in which he blinked and the languid pattern of his breathing as he smoked. It was clear that Francis knew a lot more about Arthur Kirkland than most, the kind of knowledge that came with actually witnessing someone’s life rather than simply being told about it after the fact. Alfred wondered about how they had met. He wanted to know about their history, and what they really meant to each other.

“Has he ever talked about coming to America?” Francis posed after a while, evidently picking up on Alfred’s questioning stare. He shook his head, and Francis seemed to consider that information. “You should ask him about it some time, it is an interesting story.” He took another drag.

“Oi, cheer up!” Arthur cajoled as he came up behind them, slinging an arm over each of their shoulders. The pale hand that hung down at Alfred’s bicep held another clear plastic cup, this time half filled with a slug or two of dark brown liquor. The scent was sweet and spicy, most likely some form of rum.

“How many of those have you had whilst my back has been turned cher?” Francis tittered.

“Peaky and Trish got in a few rounds” Arthur shrugged, and Alfred could smell the leather of his jacket and the subtle musk of his cologne. This was definitely the closest they’d ever been.

“They’ll be finishing up soon” Arthur nodded towards the energetic group of musicians, stealing Francis’s cigarette whilst he was otherwise distracted, claiming it retribution for his earlier transgression. Alfred suddenly wished that he smoked too. “We should go and find a place near the front” he suggested.

“Not too close” Francis eyed him warily “you know what happened last time - and I like this suit” he straightened his tie.

“Don’t be such a wimp” Arthur rolled his eyes, sharing a conspiratorial scoff with Alfred, the latter not entirely understanding the reference.

“I am not” Francis sniffed in mock offence “I just, heaven knows why, do not enjoy that fighting which is so thinly disguised as _dancing_ as much as you do. And in any case...” the sly grin found its way back onto his lips “I think I spy Antonio over there, would you not like to say hello?”

“Where? Ah bollocks” Arthur hissed when his searching eyes fell on a tall brunet man with olive skin. “Let’s move before he sees us” he grumbled, grasping hold of Alfred’s elbow to drag him into the cover of the crowd. Alfred went with him willingly as Francis laughed and followed at a saunter in their wake, only managing to spare a glance behind him to get a curious look at the one they were attempting to avoid.

Within no time the main act had claimed the stage, and they were just as jarring and energetic as Alfred had been expecting. The frontman stomped around in heavy doc martens, alternately shouting and crooning his way through their hyperactive set, the other members of the band dancing in place as they strummed at low-slung guitars or wielded brightly pitched brass instruments that sparkled under the spotlights.

At some point Alfred had lost track of Francis, his attention never really having wavered from Arthur, even amidst the throng of the now heaving dance floor. In fact, the only proof that the Frenchman had ever existed in the first place was that Arthur was currently wearing his hat, the charcoal trilby tilted jauntily over one side of his face, obscuring the majority of his perpetually messy hair. It looked really good on him, somehow accentuating all of the little things that were just so quintessentially Arthur, bringing out his magnetic qualities as they danced and laughed with each other. Alfred was caught between admiring him in his borrowed accessory, and being slightly jealous of where it had come from. He thought about how Arthur might look wearing something of his.

And it didn’t seem to matter that Alfred didn’t know exactly how to dance to this kind of music, because from what he could make out there didn’t appear to be any hard and fast rules. People were mostly doing a sort of jog on the spot, each kick timed with the backbeat rhythm of the bass line. But others were jumping around more erratically, especially towards the front of the stage, and on the periphery where the masses thinned out, couples were twisting together in movements reminiscent of an old-time jive. Alfred stuck close to Arthur and tried to emulate and keep in time with him, even enjoying the moments when the crowd surged at the first resonant strains of the particularly popular songs, crushing them together so that they almost lost their balance.

Francis reappeared at length, bringing booze and a Spanish man with him, the latter of which Arthur seemed much less enthusiastic to receive than the first. It was the tall olive-skinned man that they’d managed to successfully circumvent earlier that night, and Francis even looked a little apologetic as he handed out their drinks.

“Look who I bumped into at the bar” he raised an eyebrow at Arthur.

“Antonio. Funny seeing you here” Arthur affected surprise before draining more than half of the liquor in his newly acquired cup. “Wouldn’t have thought this was your thing.”

“It’s not really” he had to shout for his soft Latin accent to be heard over a particularly enthusiastic trombone solo “Gilbert insisted” and he lurched in shock as he was knocked into from behind by a group of boisterous dancers. Arthur hid his chuckle in his drink.

Now that Alfred had the chance to get a proper look at him, he noticed just how truly out of place he looked. The man was dressed almost head to toe in stonewashed denim, save for a flouncy kaftan type shirt and a pair of light brown Cuban heels. It made Alfred feel infinitely better about his own novice status as a ska enthusiast - at least _he’d_ done his homework.

“Antonio here is the lead singer of Armada Rose” Francis informed “they, err, mostly do soft rock and ballads” he seemed to wince internally.

“Cool,” Alfred nodded without feeling.

“Great show last week” Arthur lied smoothly, only the apathetic squint of his eyes giving him away if you knew where to look, his shoulders and arms already moving to the beat, and it was obvious he’d rather be dancing.

“Gracias cariño” Antonio preened “that means so much coming from you” and he pulled him into a hug, his hands visibly slipping around Arthur’s waist under the leather jacket.

Alfred’s eyes skimmed down Arthur’s back as he was embraced, really not appreciating the way that this guy was furtively whispering into his ear. Now that he thought about it, he remembered hearing something about a Spaniard with no regard for personal space, and suddenly it all made sense.

As he looked up he noticed Francis shrugging and mouthing something placating, apparently having a silent conversation with Arthur over Antonio’s shoulder. And then, just before Arthur managed to squirm his way out of his grasp Francis snatched his drink, and quickly downed the contents.

“Oh mon dieu!” he choked a little “Arthur seems to have finished his rum already. We cannot have that” he turned to Antonio expectantly.

“Ah! I will fetch us some more drinks, si?” he seemed to jump at the chance.

“How kind” Francis patted his back as Antonio left to fight his way over to the bar. “You may thank me later” he directed Arthur smugly, and received a shove and a smirk in return.

The rest of the evening became somewhat of a blur, awash with increasingly animated dancing and an even wider array of hard spirits. And thankfully, the more that Arthur relaxed the less he seemed concerned with preserving Alfred’s supposed innocence, and even better, in keeping up his own facade.

Because that’s what it was, Alfred’s mind slurred as his lazy eyes followed Arthur’s face around like a hypnotist’s watch. At work, his employer liked to present himself as aloof, solitary and reserved. And as much as Alfred enjoyed the sarcasm, as much as he routinely laughed at the roll of his eyes or found his grouchy tendencies rather cute, he finds now that he’s glad to have been given the chance to see this side too. This version of Arthur is so alive and charismatic, the smile on his face looking natural and so contagious. Alfred decides that he liked him more now than he even thought was possible.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo - maintaing my frantic pace of one solitary chapter per year~!
> 
> (T ^ T)
> 
> Actually, I was up against the wire to keep with what now appears to be tradition and get this one out before 2017 fucks off for good, I hadn’t written a thing for about sixth months and although it was frustrating, I didn’t really feel in the mood.
> 
> However, big shout out to Cloaina who sent me a random but pertinently timed message about this fic a few days ago, which gave me some much needed motivation to open up a blank page and start. 
> 
> I’m the type of person that needs their ass kicking a bit in order to begrudgingly get stuff done. Even the things I actually enjoy. So, err, I hereby invite your discipline into the comments section?
> 
> Also, writing about music and dancing is hard, it’s so visceral and sometimes the descriptions of such sound kind of clunky and weird. Dancing is weird tbh. Anyway, I much prefer dialogue than narrative and setup, so I think that’s part of the reason I was putting this chapter off. 
> 
> The next instalment will be my favourite. It’s not bloody written yet, but I CAN exclusively reveal that it will be published in 2018!!! When in 2018? Who knows! 
> 
> (I’m so very sorry. orz)


	4. Various Artists

 

 

 

  
Alfred woke groggily in the dark of Arthur’s apartment. He must’ve passed out on the sofa when they’d come back from the gig for yet more drinks that he definitely hadn’t needed. A fluffy knitted blanket had been draped over his body and he found his red framed glasses folded neatly on the coffee table. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been out, but the sun had yet to rise.

His throat felt dry and a little sore from shouting over the music, and when Alfred slid his glasses back onto his face he noticed a large tumbler of water and a couple of little white pills had been left out for him on the table. He gulped the water gratefully and even swallowed the medicine; he didn’t usually go in for painkillers, mostly just preferring to ride it out until he felt better of his own accord. But then he didn’t usually drink that often either.

Alfred smiled to himself as he set the empty glass down. It had been such a great night. He’d seen Arthur dancing and cutting loose, and everyone had been so nice and welcoming, even if technically he hadn’t been a part of their social group at the beginning of the night. Because yes by the end of it, he hoped at least, it felt like they actually _were_ proper friends, like Arthur finally considered him more than just an employee.

Friends let friends crash on their couch, didn’t they? Alfred nodded to himself in the dim light, his head miraculously only feeling a little bit fuzzy. And actually, this was the first time Alfred had been in this apartment in the evening. He routinely came upstairs to make coffee before opening up the shop for his weekend shift, but that was during the day, and always whilst Arthur was present. This was the first time he’d been there unobserved, when he could really get a look at the place. Not that he would snoop around or anything - that would be creepy. But there was no way he’d be getting back to sleep now.

He got up a little stiffly, swiping the glass from the table and padded over to the little kitchenette by the door that led down to the shop. He quietly turned on the tap, filling the glass by angling the stream against the sides so as not to make too much noise. He sipped at the water this time, turning to look back into the room.

There was a small spiky plant cast in silhouette on the windowsill of the longest wall, the faint glow of the streetlights bleeding through the curtains from the quiet night outside. Next to that was a tall pine bookshelf, mostly filled with an odd combination of classic literature and music annuals or similarly themed biographies. Alfred had often glanced at them as he’d made his way over to the rickety dining table, on those occasional mornings when Arthur would sit and have breakfast or a pot of tea before they opened. He’d quite like to sift through the eclectic volumes more closely, but perhaps he’d wait until the sun came up to avoid having to switch on any lights.

The walls of the room were painted a scruffy shade of white that always felt a little on the cold side, that feeling accentuated by the fact that there were very few photos or pictures about the place. Only a glossy black clock made from an old Beatles record hung near the kitchenette, a blurry and muted landscape painting of Niagara Falls above the dining table, something that Alfred suspected was there when Arthur moved in.

Most people, having only met Arthur through Albion Vinyl, probably assumed he’d be the type to have various band posters and music themed memorabilia scattered all over his apartment, but Alfred could kind of understand why he might want to keep his living space separate from the shop. He did however wonder why he didn’t seem have any photos from home, any evidence of his family or friends back in the UK.

Alfred placed the empty glass into the sink and shuffled on past the bookshelf and the table just in front of it, the knitted blanket still wrapped around his shoulders and now dragging one corner along the floorboards.

Across the side wall was a low console table with peeling wood veneer, the storage compartment underneath crammed to bursting with what realistically must only have been a fraction of Arthur’s record collection, each meticulously sleeved vinyl slotted almost too closely together so it was likely difficult to browse unless you knew exactly what you were looking for.

On top was a decent record player, not the newest or highest of spec, but made by a quality brand that Alfred had overheard the music nerds enthuse about on numerous occasions. The turntable unit was matte black and spotless, emphasising the shiny chrome of the tone-arm and stylus, all kept pristine under a transparent perspex cover. It made the old bashed up set that Alfred had inherited from his grandfather look positively decrepit.

Either side sat a pair of imposing wooden speakers, but what really caught Alfred’s attention was the tiny ornament that was perched discreetly on top of the one closest to the corner of the room. It was a little china bird, a robin or a finch of some sort, Alfred didn’t really know. It was quite delicate looking, with a thin wash of pigment like it’d been stained with watercolour paints mere moments before it was glazed.

It was an odd little thing. Quite pretty and surprisingly light when Alfred picked it up, the dainty creature not occupying much more space than a hen’s egg as it rested in the palm of his hand. The intriguing part was that it just seemed so out of place, because although Arthur appeared to have an affinity for chintz when it came to his tea drinking apparatus, this particular object felt different somehow. It didn’t serve any purpose to warrant its place within Arthur’s heavily functional home, the naivety of its design not really fitting with his persona. On the underside was a stamp printed in a smudge of watery blue ink. It read ‘Made in Lincolnshire, England’.

At the sound of a muffled thud, Alfred’s heart jumped into his throat. Quickly but carefully he placed the bird back where he found it, the rest of his movements curtailed as he stood stock still and breathless whilst he listened. To his immediate right the door was drawn closed but not tightly shut, a pokey hallway beyond it connecting the singular bedroom and bathroom to the rest of the apartment.

The reverberation of another clatter, possibly a shoe hitting the floor, and what might’ve been a short string of curse words made its way again to Alfred’s ear. But this time around he chuckled, the endearingly clumsy nature of the noise instantly settling his nerves at ease. So much so that almost without thinking he reached for the handle and casually pulled the door open, eager for a chance at teasing Arthur about how unusually graceless he was being.

It was only once he’d stepped into the cramped confines of the hallway, the soft suffusion of where Arthur’s bedroom door was left ajar the only major light source, did he realise quite what he was doing. He faltered, this seemed like he was probably crossing a line, but if Arthur was awake then maybe they could talk, Alfred still had all that secret research he’d done on ska to use on him after all.

The instant that he heard the Frenchman’s voice, he knew he’d made a mistake.

Alfred held his breath, too afraid to move lest the floorboards creaked or he knocked into something. Before, he’d felt like he’d been making progress with Arthur, like tonight they’d bridged some kind of gap and he was no longer so far out of reach. But now, the murmurs and quiet shifting that escaped from the room beyond were sending waves of nausea convulsing through his gut. Alfred didn’t want to hear this. He closed his eyes and silently berated himself inside his head, this situation could not possibly be any more awkward.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” Arthur questioned primly, and for a second Alfred felt every muscle in his body contract. “Francis, is all this completely necessary?”

Alfred squinted one eye open, finding himself still blessedly alone, and he had to stop himself from audibly sighing out in relief.

“Those are the rules” Francis slyly admonished from the other side of the door “and rules must be honoured.”

And god, but Alfred wanted to know. It was a sick, self loathing kind of curiosity, it left his fingers twitching where they nervously clung to the blanket still draped around his shoulders. He didn’t want to think of them together, to have all of his impure suspicions confirmed. But what kind of things was Arthur doing in there? He wanted to know him so badly.

“Like you’d understand a thing about honour” Arthur replied with a haughty note of melodrama. His disparaging words avenged with a swift slap of skin, followed by a hiss.

And fuck this, but Alfred needed to see.

Arthur was laid on his back at the foot of the bed. Alfred couldn’t make out his face from were he peered through the gap in the door, only the top of his head and the way that his messy blond hair fell tousled against the sheets. His arms were raised and almost dangling off the edge of the mattress, his wrists tied together with what appeared to be the thin black necktie that Francis had been wearing.

The man in question was sitting up in the middle of the double bed, Arthur’s pale thighs either side of his waist. He was still fully dressed in his suit trousers and dress shirt, though Arthur appeared more vulnerably clad in only his tight white tshirt and black boxer briefs.

“Now now, you wound me lapin, and I have been nothing but chivalrous this evening” he smirked, idly stroking his palms over Arthur’s bare legs as he talked, the subtle bloom of a handprint just barely below his hip.

“You bloody well led the bloke straight to me, is what you did” Arthur objected, though the smile in his voice seemed to indicate his amusement at Francis and his exaggerated pout. “And, you downed the rest of my rum!” He laughed and then squirmed as Francis purposefully poked him in his side.

“But I got you another did I not?” Francis shifted in order to lean over Arthur “so that is two things you owe me for...” he ground their hips together.

“That’s- ah, not how it works and you know it” Arthur strained through gritted teeth “this idiotic little game is about favours - not haggling over who buys who drinks or pointless shiny trinkets.”

“True” Francis conceded “but that still leaves me at a deficit. You owe me a reward cher.”

“And _this_ is how you wish to spend it?” Arthur scoffed, lowering his bound wrists between them.

“But of course, what is there not to like about the opportunity to show you who is superior?” he yanked Arthur’s arms back over his head and held them down “so tonight you will answer to me, bon?”

“Bloody arrogant French-“ but his protests were quashed by the force of a harsh kiss, as Francis allowed his free hand to explore underneath Arthur’s shirt.

Alfred could feel his face beginning to heat as if it were on fire. Which was ridiculous because he wasn’t exactly a virgin, and even without his admittedly modest history of girlfriends, he’d gotten to see those porno tapes that’d made their way round his dorm last semester. But this, he’d never seen anything like this. And it was Arthur.

Francis was pushing Arthur’s shirt up towards his chest, and Alfred couldn’t get a good enough view, but every so often Arthur would arch off the mattress as Francis rolled his hips, and suddenly Alfred’s throat had gone dry.

It was the noises that Arthur was making too - low and husky, with the occasional impatient whine. Alfred wanted to close his eyes, to take in those sounds and commit them to memory, perhaps elaborate with his own imaginary additions. But he couldn’t look away. He could barely even breathe.

“Call me Monsieur Bonnefoy” Francis pulled away to breathlessly grin down at Arthur.

“Fuck off” he snorted in return, his laughter melting away as Francis attacked his jaw, his lips then moving to his ear to whisper something under his breath.

Arthur gasped when a hand found its way beneath the waistband of his underwear, Francis still quietly talking as his arm maintained a relaxed but powerful rhythm between their bodies.

Alfred could feel himself getting hard, and shamefully he shifted from foot to foot, wincing at the inadvertent friction the motion caused. Arthur was panting now, and Alfred bit his lip as he pressed the heel of his palm against his groin, the sensation creasing his brow as tendrils of heat rattled the nerves throughout his body. Arthur cursed, and before his mind had a chance to rationalise his actions he was drawing down his zipper and taking ahold of his length, his other hand still clutching the edges of the knitted blanket together over his chest.

“You’re such a pervert” Arthur moaned “figures you’d be- uhn... turned on by someone being s-submissive.”

“Take a look at yourself cher” Francis retorted. “Mais oui, I admit there is a certain satisfaction in taming a troublemaker. But that is not my only weakness” he ceased the motion of his hand, purposefully drawing Arthur’s attention.

“Weakness?” he heaved in confusion.

“I may have a penchant for voyeurism - that is, for being watched” and suddenly his sharp eyes met with Alfred’s.

“What’re you...” Arthur strained his neck back, following Francis’ gaze so he was looking upside down towards the door and “shit!” he rasped, scrambling to sit up.

But Francis still had Arthur’s bound wrists in his grasp, and he used his free hand and his body weight to keep him still.

“Come” he beckoned Alfred with a flick of his chin.

Alfred had felt his blood turn to iced water the moment that Francis had looked at him, his cool blue eyes finding him out so efficiently that it was clear he’d known he was there for a while. But _Arthur_ had seen him watching, like a fucking peeping tom, meaning this was the absolute worst thing that had ever happened to him in his life. How the hell was he supposed to explain himself? And even now, with his cover blown and when any sensible person would be running away, Alfred couldn’t so much as move let alone speak. Frozen to the spot with his cock in his hand.

“Alfred” Francis cooed “do come in.”

“Francis, what are you doing?” Arthur spluttered, and now that his attention was elsewhere Alfred had the decency to at least retract his hand from inside his pants.

“The boy is obviously intrigued” he explained with a nonchalant shrug “and it would be rude, would it not, to leave a guest standing out in the hall?”

Francis moved to allow a speechless Arthur to sit up, though the moment that he’d righted himself Francis slipped an arm around his waist and dragged him off balance into his lap, Arthur’s back against his chest as they now both faced the open door.

“I have changed my mind. I do not want to play the master tonight - I want to play the host.”

“Francis” Arthur groaned.

“Ah-ah” he corrected “you owe me lapin, those are the rules.”

“Alfred” Arthur spoke a little softer, and Alfred’s gaze was redirected from where he’d been shamelessly staring at his body, taking in the newly improved view of rumpled tshirt, black underwear and long bare legs. And now Alfred noticed that Arthur wasn’t quite looking at him, and Jesus but was he blushing? Alfred swallowed hard. “Please, you don’t have to do anything” Arthur insisted “Francis is just being... well, Francis. I’m sorry if you feel embarrassed-“

But Alfred was already pushing the door fully open, letting the blanket fall from his shoulders into a forgotten heap on the floor. His blood was alive with challenge and arousal, determination overriding nerves as he climbed onto the bed.

“Très bien” Francis praised, but Alfred barely noticed.

“Uh, Alfred?” Arthur was obviously shocked, which Alfred dismissed with a shake of his head.

“Shut up. I’m not a kid.”

He set a hand on Arthur’s shoulder but quickly followed with his lips to Arthur’s own, lunging forward on his knees with one hand planted on the mattress to steady himself.

Arthur still tasted of rum, and Alfred fought to quell his excitement, concentrating his hardest to show him what he could do. But oh he was kissing Arthur, and his lips were a little thin but surprisingly soft. His tongue was allowed in to his mouth, and Arthur was kissing back now but Alfred was running the show. And he was panting when he finally pulled away.

“Bloody hell” Arthur muttered, and Alfred felt a swell of pride.

“Bon” Francis interrupted “good. Now try a little slower” he took Arthur’s still bound wrists and hooked them over Alfred’s head, so they were resting around his neck. And Alfred didn’t want to be told what to do, much less by someone like Francis. But the thought of a slow sensual kiss really did sound appealing as well. And Arthur was blushing again.

He leaned in once more, this time with much less urgency, and so he noticed how puffy Arthur’s lips were, how he was watching him through curious hooded green eyes. Alfred moved in towards his mouth, but at the last minute changed his mind and pressed his lips against his jaw, taking the opportunity to taste the skin at his throat and just below his ear. The restraints at the nape of Alfred’s neck flinched as he licked a certain spot, and he felt a pulse in his groin at the resultant quiet moan that Arthur exhaled.

“Oh, you found a nice place” Francis hummed before he’d had the chance to congratulate himself fully, tainting his victory somewhat.

Alfred’s annoyance melted away the instant he was back to kissing Arthur. Losing himself in the sensation of sweet warmth and achingly gentle movements, the type of kiss that could also be felt in the chest.

But soon enough the moment was spoiled once again, this time by a pair of large wandering hands that were definitely not his own, and could not possibly have belonged to Arthur, tethered as he was.

Of course, Alfred was aware of Francis. Arthur was still sitting in his lap, his back against his chest and now his head all but resting in the crook of his shoulder as Alfred continued to kiss him. But that didn’t mean he had to like way that Francis was beginning to assert himself.

He felt more than saw the shivers that ran through Arthur’s body as Francis busied his hands, and he couldn’t fully enjoy the way that Arthur bit down on his lower lip, because he knew that he wasn’t the cause. And it was also the constant narration, and more so because it was in _French_. What Francis was murmuring were probably dirty words, spoken in part for Arthur’s benefit, and Alfred wished he’d shut up.

When they finally pulled apart for air, francis took the opportunity to steal away Arthur’s attention, and Alfred was pretty sure he must’ve been scowling. He was made to watch as they kissed, held close by Arthur’s arms still locked around his neck, and they looked so practiced and natural. Alfred felt the jealousy in him beginning to boil over.

Francis had captured Arthur’s chin to angle his face over his shoulder, and Alfred did not want to see this. He grasped Arthur by his upper arms and pulled him away towards himself, the man not really having a choice since his hands were literally tied. And finally Arthur was properly in his arms, his body weight leaning against his chest, and he even loved the way that Arthur looked up at him - one eyebrow sardonically raised in a questioning ‘really?’

He laughed as he kissed him again, because alfred felt like he had won. Arthur was more than a trophy to him, but as it turned out it seemed he didn’t really like to share.

And that was definitely a problem, as Arthur cried out into his mouth, a response that was surely not garnered from kissing alone.

Francis was up close behind Arthur, his hand already down the back of his boxer briefs, fingers crooked and gently thrusting.

“Did you know that he likes it like this?” Francis asked him smugly, a definite note of confrontation in his tone, punctuated by a whispered curse spilled from Arthur’s own lips.

And everything about this was wrong. He didn’t want to hear Arthur making noises for somebody else. He didn’t want anyone telling him how Arthur liked to be touched. This wasn’t how he wanted this to happen. He wanted to feel a genuine connection, and for Arthur to feel it in return, just the two of them. He didn’t want to do it if it was like this, and that revelation was deeply mortifying.

Alfred ducked out from under Arthur’s bound arms and staggered backwards off the end of the bed. He stood for a moment, not looking at either of them, his voice having apparently evaporated along with his lust.

“Alfred, are you alright?” Arthur asked with caution as he distractedly pushed Francis away, untying his own wrists from their confines surprisingly easily.

But Alfred couldn’t answer, because he didn’t really know, and how was he supposed to explain that he wanted Arthur all for himself?

So instead he did what he should’ve done at the start, and he ran. He ran from the bedroom and through the dark apartment. He ran down the stairs and out the fire escape. But mostly, Alfred ran away from Arthur’s question.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GAHHH! *gasping for air* This was the bit that I wanted to write when I first started this fic. THAT WAS IN 2015!!! 
> 
> (O_O)
> 
> Aaaaand relax...
> 
>  
> 
> So, funny story. 
> 
> I was in a pub on New Year’s Eve, they had this Irish folk band with a piano and a fiddle and that big flat drum which I’ve since learned is called a bodhran, and they’re playing all the traditional knees-up type stuff along with a few festive covers - they had the whole place singshouting along to the swear words in Fairytale of New York and it was good times.
> 
> Anyway, so there was I propping up the bar sipping on a freshly decanted spiced rum (Arthur’s favourite) when the band only goes and does a random jig version of the ska classic Rat Race by The Specials (also one of Arthur’s favourites - he’s literally been there and worn the tshirt in chapter 3). And I thought, huh. 
> 
> It was a really nice moment just for me, and now you I guess. Writers block can be a bitch, so actually I was really pleased that I’d managed to get something out in the last few days before year’s end. And then there’s this little cosmic thumbs up and it’s like ‘nice one, now keep going!’
> 
> And yes, I was definitely drunk, and perhaps I’m clutching at motivational straws. But here’s chapter 4, bearing in mind the last instalment wasn’t posted until latest December, and I’ve already got some dialogue down for numbers 5 and 6. So I’m hoping 2018 will be one for getting stuff done. 
> 
> Love and gratitude however, as always goes to those lovely people who sent me encouraging messages even after I’d been away for so long. X


End file.
